


The Sound in the Silence

by thegildedmagpie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Begging, Emotional Baggage, Hand Jobs, I will never pass up a chance to use that tag, Incest, M/M, Maeglin Handles Things Badly, Nolofinwions Need Therapy, Rough Kissing, Turgon isn't mad he's disappointed, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegildedmagpie/pseuds/thegildedmagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon knows he's not remotely qualified to heal the damage Eöl left behind, especially not when Maeglin has somehow ended up in his bed.  But if no one else is going to try to help him, then real, unforced consent might be a good place to start.</p><p>Not quite PWP, but close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound in the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> So, this seems like the place to explain that there are two basic timelines/universes in my work: the one where Turgon and Maeglin never figure their shit out (e.g. semi-canon), and the one where an enabling person of my acquaintance made me ship them and their fucked-up coping mechanisms together. This story is a short moment from the latter 'verse.
> 
>  **Additional warning** for ... well, the "Implied/Referenced Child Abuse" tag is maybe too strong, but the characters are dealing with the aftermath of some dark stuff even if we only go with canon-explicit events. How Maeglin learned these behaviors is left as an exercise for the reader, and some readers may find the exercise uncomfortable.
> 
> This ficlet was originally posted on Tumblr under @magpiescholar.

“What is it?” Turgon finally asks, making his voice as gentle as he can. 

Maeglin is quivering beneath him, long thighs parted and hands drowning-tight on Turgon’s shoulders. At the question, he startles as though scolded.

“It’s all right, dearest. I’m not angry.” How quickly the reassurance falls from his lips now; it aches that Maeglin still fears his displeasure, but he made one brief experiment in withholding the comfort to avoid reinforcing the necessity of fear, and it ended very badly indeed. “I can just see that you’re … ” He lets that trail off. Indeed, it took him a long time to learn to read expressions in Maeglin’s beautiful and unsettling ink-black eyes, but Maeglin looks like he’s about to cry.

Dark eyes squeeze shut as Maeglin shakes his head mutely, rolling silky black hair against the pillowcase, pearl-grey in the low light.

“You’re trembling,” Turgon attempts again.

Maeglin tries to pull him down, and Turgon goes willingly to resume the kiss, keeping it as soft as he can, and as slow. Maeglin is writhing under him, though; Turgon wraps an arm closer around him, pressing him protectively close, and for several moments that seems to help. They relax into each other again, their bodies fitting together like stones chiseled from the same quarry, their mouths catching with a soft slide like two silken garments folded together in a drawer. With Maeglin’s hand on Turgon’s shoulder, his elbow tucks naturally into the crook of his uncle’s arm, and Turgon gently traps him there as he reaches across the small of Maeglin’s back, pinning him inseparably close. For moments, Turgon allows himself to sink into the quiet of feeling that he’s doing something right, creating some peace in Maeglin’s trouble.

But it’s with a flash of hurt that he feels Maeglin starting to struggle again, this time with a low noise that’s instantly choked off. Again he lets go to prop himself up on his elbows, and again Maeglin lets him go. (Turgon knows that Maeglin, who sometimes seems to hardly leave the anvil, is stronger than he is and could stop him from pulling back to have difficult conversations. He’s never demonstrated it.) Hands not quite free of soot reach up to grip the bedposts as Maeglin’s head falls back. Throat exposed, arms outstretched by the position, legs parted by Turgon kneeling between them, lips kissed and bitten to a rosy fullness, he looks like an offering.

“If you don’t want to do this tonight,” Turgon begins gently –

– but Maeglin _whines_ at the abortive offer, low and desperate and animal, and his teeth clench, then he speaks in briar-tangled Sindarin: “I am _trying_ to please you, I’m doing – I’m doing all I can – I thought this was what you wanted – ”

“And so I thought!” Turgon protests, a little sudden in his startlement at the abrupt change.

But Maeglin doesn’t even seem to be listening: “Please – please – take me, Turgon – I _love_ you, I’m ready –”

Maeglin could have accused him of many a crime without getting the same cold, arousal-killing clench of Turgon’s stomach at words of love being offered in such obvious pain. But as he’s recoiling inwardly, Maeglin startles outwardly, his eyes coming open again – and he switches wincingly into Quenya. “I love you,” he says more softly this time – it must have been the unfamiliar shape of the words that made him aware he’d lapsed. “I’m ready for you, I’ve _been_ ready – ” The urgency returns to his tones – “I’m doing all I can to please you, to make you want me, just tell me what you’re looking for, please – take me, I want it.”

It takes all Turgon’s self-control not to turn away from the pleading; Maeglin prostrating himself like this resembles nothing that his uncle has ever asked or wanted from a lover. Instead he draws Maeglin closer, convulsively drawing the boy into his arms, stroking his hair in an effort to calm him.

“I’m trying,” says Maeglin again, this time in a whisper.

“I know, dearest,” Turgon tries to soothe him.

“Just tell me what you want me to do. I want to be taken – I want you.” Even in the dimness, with their cheekbones laid side by side, Turgon can see the way Maeglin’s ear-tip darkens with a blush of humiliation. He’s finding this degrading. That shouldn’t be comforting – but it is, somewhere under the horror, even as Turgon wants to comfort the embarrassment away like a nightmare.

“I want you too,” he murmurs, hands attempting to pacify Maeglin with fingers in his hair, slow circles rubbed into his upper back.

“Then what am I doing wrong?” Maeglin says explosively, a little too loud. “Turgon, please. Please. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for hours.”

“We need to talk about this,” Turgon speaks over him, also a little too loudly.

Maeglin, knowing the phrase too well, lets his head fall back with a thump, his arms slackening.

“I thought,” Turgon says more softly, rearranging his arms to keep his weight off Maeglin and carefully disguising his hurt as the implications grow, “that you enjoyed kissing me. That you liked just lying together.”

“I do,” Maeglin assures him almost before he’s finished. “I do. I’m just … ” He squirms and slips back into pleading. “I’m ready for you. Turgon, please. I want this. Please take me.”

Turgon stares at him for a second, pale eyes trying to capture Maeglin’s dark ones as his lover avoids his gaze, well-kissed mouth still spilling words like painful tribute: “I want you … inside me. I need it. I know I need it. I know I de –”

This time Turgon takes his mouth more suddenly, sweeping down to capture his lips with a firmer, slightly biting kiss. At the same time, he sweeps his hand down Maeglin’s body, feeling between his legs to find him still throbbing hard. He knows very well that’s not a foolproof signal with Maeglin – perhaps with anyone – but it’ll have to be enough just now, since Maeglin can’t seem to stop himself; even into the kiss, his usually-silent nephew is moaning, still begging.

Maeglin rises into the touch, every line of his stomach and hip taut beside Turgon’s forearm, and Turgon gives his lip one firm nip, eliciting a small cry. “Hush, best beloved,” he says softly, a gentle phrase he would speak to Idril when she was a child who came to him with scraped knees. “I love you, too. I love you all too much.”

Usually the boy he should never have allowed to become his lover is too silent; this time his cry as Turgon’s hand closes around him is low and needy and _filthy_. Turgon cannot bear to take him now, but he can satisfy the need once he knows it. He begins more quickly than is his custom, and he’s rewarded with Maeglin’s hands returning to his shoulders, fingers playing tremulously in his long hair.

“Thank you,” Maeglin breathes – and he pauses, then says again, “I love you.”

This time, the words stir warmth.


End file.
